CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jenna came back to herself in fragments—first the taste of copper on her tongue, then the thundering pulse in her ears, and finally, the dull, throbbing pain at the back of her skull. She forced her eyes open, blinking into the dimness around her.
A single oil lamp burned on a table nearby. Victorian furnishings created pockets of shadow throughout the room. She tried to move and her body answered with a chorus of protests. Nothing broken, but the fall had taken its toll.
Her voice caught as she whispered, “Jake, can you hear me?”
Silence answered her. She reached up to her ear, searching for the small plastic device of her radio earpiece, and found nothing but her own skin.
“It’s no use. I took it. I smashed it. Jake won’t find you here.”
The voice came from behind her—smooth, controlled, with a chilling note of satisfaction.
Jenna sat up and turned slowly, muscles protesting, to find herself facing Pete Shannon again.
Or rather, with the living image of the man from the portrait: dark hair, parted in the middle, thick mustache, high-collared Victorian shirt and waistcoat.
The eyes that met hers were alert, watching her with the focused interest of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
“I know who you are,” Jenna said, her voice steadier than she expected. “Ethan Pierce.”
With his free hand—his left, because his right was currently holding her own service pistol, aimed directly at her—Ethan reached up and tugged at the corner of his mustache.
It came away, revealing the clean-shaven skin beneath.
Next, he removed the wig, running his other hand through his real hair, which was shorter and lighter than the dark Victorian style.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out. You’re even sharper than I gave you credit for, Sheriff. You’ve found Pete Shannon’s secret lair. His sanctum sanctorum, he called it—a sacred place in a way, where he could be alone with his thoughts.”
“My deputy—”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Ethan cut her off. “I imagine he’s wandering through these tunnels searching for you. He won’t find you, though. The entrance that led you here is closed off. I sealed it behind us.”
Jenna glanced at the walls surrounding them. The room was small, barely eight feet square, no windows, no visible doors.
“Don’t bother looking for an escape route,” Ethan continued, following her gaze.
“This chamber is quite soundproof as well as deeply hidden beneath the house’s foundations.
You could shout until your voice gave out, and no one would hear you.
” He gestured with her pistol. “Even this will be muffled to outside ears. Pete Shannon built well. The Victorian obsession with privacy had its advantages.”
“He built passageways to spy on his guests,” Jenna said. “Not to kill them.”
“You think?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s what he told people.
But the history books don’t record everything, Sheriff.
” He moved to a nearby chair, settling into it with the careful grace of someone who wanted to appear at ease while remaining alert.
“Besides, this isn’t about Pete. It’s about his legacy. And mine.”
Jenna kept her eyes on the gun, calculating distance, weighing options. If she could keep him talking, maybe she’d see a chance. “Why kill Donna Marsh? She had nothing to do with the Shannon-Calloway feud.”
“She was unlucky, that’s all. In order to terrify people away from this place, I had to start somewhere.”
“And Boyd?” Jenna prompted.
“Now him,” Ethan said, his voice warming with satisfaction, “that was a key point of the whole exercise. Revenge, two centuries in the making.” He leaned forward, eyes bright with a fervor that bordered on mania.
“His ancestor Amos Calloway and Pete were partners—equal partners—but it became a true case of survival of the fittest.”
“The mansion,” Jenna said.
“The mansion, the mine, everything. Pete built this place as a monument to his own triumph. Every brick, every passage, every hidden spy hole. But when Amos Calloway’s great-great-grandson came back to reclaim Shannon House and turn it into Calloway House, he made Pete’s personal realm into condos for rich retirees.
” His voice had risen, taking on an edge of genuine anger.
“As the last surviving descendant of Pete Shannon, I couldn’t let that stand. ”
Jenna glanced around the room, taking mental inventory. The chair where Ethan perched. A small side table with a heavy brass candlestick. A dresser against the far wall.
The only way in or out had to be to be through hidden panels—she couldn’t tell how many or where. No weapons other than her gun in his hands. For now, she had to keep him talking.
“So, you’re the one who’s been playing the ghost,” she said, drawing his attention back to her. “Keeping the stories alive.”
Ethan was visibly pleased by her deduction.
“Every generation, one of us takes on the role. Moves through the passages, makes the lights flicker, briefly appears as you see me now. Just enough to keep the superstition going, to make sure no one ever feels completely comfortable in Pete’s house.
” He smiled. “And now, with Donna’s death, Boyd’s heart attack, and soon, the mysterious disappearance of Sheriff Graves into the bowels of the mansion, the legend will live on.
Boyd Calloway’s project will be thwarted.
No one will want to live in a place where three people died under such mysterious circumstances. ”
“You’re insane,” Jenna said quietly.
“No,” Ethan corrected her. “I’m devoted to my family legacy. There’s a difference.”
Jenna let her body slump, playing up her injuries, making herself appear weaker than she was. The throbbing in her head provided a convenient focus for her acting. “So, what happens now? You shoot me and leave my body here? Hope no one connects the dots?”
Ethan rose from his chair to pace the small room. “Like I said, you’ll disappear forever. No body, no closure. Just Sheriff Graves, vanished without a trace while investigating the haunted mansion. The papers will love it. I might even write up the story myself.”
As he turned away, completing another circuit of the room, Jenna’s hand inched toward the candlestick. The heavy brass would make an effective weapon if she could get a clean throw. She just needed him to move a little further away, to create enough distance for her to act.
“Ethan,” she called, her voice deliberately weak. “Before you do anything, I want to know one thing.”
He paused, glancing back at her. “What’s that?”
“Was any of it real? The questions about my methods, the interest in how I solved cases? Or was it all just part of the act?”
For a moment, something like genuine emotion crossed his face—uncertainty, perhaps, or regret.
“Oh, I was fascinated, all right,” he admitted.
“I’ve always been fascinated by people who see patterns others miss.
The way you work... it’s almost like you have a sixth sense.
” He chuckled. “Maybe you do. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
The psychic sheriff, done in by the ghost she was chasing. ”
He turned away again, moving toward the far wall, his back partially to her. It was now or never. Jenna’s wrenched her body upward, her hand closing around the candlestick. In one fluid motion, she drew back her arm and hurled it directly at Ethan’s gun hand.
The brass connected with a solid thunk, exactly as she’d hoped. Ethan cried out, his arm jerking reflexively, fingers opening. The gun clattered to the floor, sliding out of his reach. Jenna was already moving, throwing herself forward despite her protesting muscles, reaching for the weapon.
But even as she lunged, Ethan was at the wall, his hand slapping against a section of paneling that looked no different from any other. There was a soft click, and then darkness—complete and sudden as the oil lamp’s flame was extinguished by a rush of air.
Jenna scrambled to her feet, fumbling in her pocket for her backup flashlight. The beam sprang to life, illuminating an empty room—and an open doorway where solid wall had been a moment before.
The passage beyond was narrow, with a floor that sloped gently upward.
She snatched her weapon off of the floor and plunged into it, flashlight beam bouncing ahead of her as she ran.
The passage twisted and turned, occasionally branching, but she followed the sounds of creaking wood, pushing herself to move faster despite the pain that flared with each step.
A flight of stairs led upward, back to the level of the passageways that opened into the rooms. She turned a corner, moving more cautiously now, aware that Ethan might be waiting in ambush. The corridor narrowed again, then opened into a small chamber.
And there was Ethan, backed against the far wall, his escape route blocked by a solid panel of wood. He turned as Jenna entered, flashlight beam catching his face—flushed, breath coming in quick gasps, eyes wide with desperation.
“Sheriff,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We can talk about this. There’s no need for—“
Jenna didn’t give him the chance to finish. She crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it behind his back in one smooth motion. Ethan cried out, dropping to his knees as she applied pressure to the joint. She holstered her gun and pulled her handcuffs from her belt.
“Ethan Pierce,” she said, “you’re under arrest for the murders of Donna Marsh and Boyd Calloway, and for the attempted murder of a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
She snapped the cuffs into place, securing his wrists behind his back. Only then did she allow herself to relax, the adrenaline that had carried her through the chase beginning to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
“Jake!” she called, her voice echoing through the passages. “Jake, can you hear me?”
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of her own breathing and Ethan’s quiet sobs. Then, from somewhere distant, came a reply.
“Jenna? Where are you?”
Relief flooded through her, so intense it made her knees weak. “Follow my voice!” she called back. “I’ve got him! I’ve got our killer!”
The answering call came again, closer this time. “I’m coming! Keep talking!”
Moments later, a beam of light appeared at the far end of the passage. It grew stronger, resolving into the shape of Jake, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, his face tight with worry until he spotted her. Then his expression transformed, relief washing away the lines of tension.
“You’re okay,” he said, holstering his weapon as he reached her. “When you didn’t answer your radio...”
“I’m fine,” Jenna assured him, though the various aches and pains throughout her body suggested otherwise. “Bruised up and achy, but fine.”
She reached down, hauling Ethan to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get him out of here and book him. Then I want to see every inch of these passages mapped and photographed. No more secrets in Calloway House.”
As they made their way back through the labyrinth, Jenna felt a weight lifting. The killer was caught. The mystery was solved. And by now, her sister was home again—home for good, she hoped.
For the first time since Donna Marsh’s body had been discovered, Jenna allowed herself to believe that everything might, eventually, be all right.